Hydrochloric Coffee
by JuubiOokami
Summary: When a sleeping Sherlock is confronted by Lestrade and Watson about a case they find out that not only does Holmes sleep-talk and sleep-walk, he also…Sleep-Deducts? Completely unconsious and unable to lie, the truths of Sherlock's mind are open to both.
1. SleepDeducing

**Hello fellow 'Sherlock' fans! Ok, so this is my first 'Sherlock' fanfic, and I'm really quite excited as, not only do I love the series, but judging from what I see, you guys do too…You wouldn't be reading this otherwise.**

**So anyway, I've only watched the first two episodes, so I've tried my best to keep the characters accurate. As an all out Sherlock Holmes fan I've read a lot of the books as well, and seen different interpretations, so where I might fail to get the characters completely right, I revert to the original, so they won't be **_**too**_** far out.**

**So this fic focuses mainly on Sherlock, John and Lestrade, with emphasis on Sherlock being very slightly crazy. The fic will be in two/three parts, but depending on the feedback I can always extend. **

**I hope you all enjoy this fic, and please review with any feedback, or constructive criticism. **

**Warnings - Drug mention (later), Swearing, Craziness, Anderson bashing.**

**Disclaimer – I do not own Sherlock Holmes, or any of the characteristics or places described in this interpretation. **

"Bla" – Normal

"**Bla" **– Phone/Shouting

"_Bla"_ – Memories.

**Enjoy!**

**-Hydrocholoric Coffee-**

John Watson gave a low sigh, running a hand up through his short army-cut hair, as the passing torrent of rain continued ceaselessly before him, offering no chance of left up. He was anxious to return home, having been away for the night, and left Sherlock to his own devices…which really wasn't a good idea. Of course the man was a brilliant master-mind, a narcissistic genius in-fact, but he often neglected to think about the important things. Such as eating, drinking, sleeping oh – and breathing, as that was fairly important too, no matter how boring Sherlock may have claimed it to be.

When the Doctor had last left his friend, Holmes had been lunging frantically around the apartment in a fit of zeal, blabbering triumphantly to himself in what appeared to be an interesting merge of French, English and Latin. He'd been up on a thirty-six hour stint without food, or sleep for that matter, and had been high as a kite on his own adrenalin and nicotine. Watson had managed to negotiate the release of 'the skull' with Mrs. Hudson in the vague hope that it would act as a good alternative until John returned the next day. Judging by the fact that he hadn't had any panicked phone-calls from their landlady telling him the house was a on fire, or that Holmes had managed to shoot himself in the eye in a mad moment of hysterically lonely experimenting, John was feeling confident that 'Yorik', as he had so named the skull, had done its part as an audience member in keeping the Detective's active mind as sane as was possible. Of course, the Doctor reasoned, it had been he originally who had been the alternative for Yorik, so he doubted that Sherlock had even noticed the Soldier's disappearance at all – as long as you fed his ego by listening to his ramble the Detective was happy to amuse himself, without issue, for days.

With a quiet grumble Watson looked to the dark clouds above, and darted out into the street, his collar turned up against the wind – the time in Afghanistan had made his tolerance of bad weather worse. Striding down the path he considered a cab momentarily before dismissing the idea with shake of his head – the problem with working with Holmes was that you saw possible killers everywhere now. Plus Mycroft wasn't the most trust-worthy character that the Doctor had ever been associated with.

With a low buzz his phone began to vibrate in his pocket and he fished it out, staring at the screen with a squint as he tried to make out the caller – Withheld number. Perfect.

"Hello?" He answered wearily, looking both ways as he hurriedly crossed the street.

"**Dr. Watson? It's Lestrade."**

Watson raised his eyebrows, "How did you get this number?" He asked instantly.

"**Sherlock gave it to me in-case I needed to call him in an emergency, or for un-work related issues."**

"Oh." Watson muttered dryly, "He would." Taking a sharp left he jogged down through the street, head bend down as rain thundered over him. "This is my mobile number."

"**I guessed as such. I'm sorry to be calling you, but as Holmes is refusing to answer his own phone I was wondering if you could pass him over."**

Watson looked down the street after him, darting through an alley which offered a longer, but drier route to Baker Street. "He's not with me right now, where are you?"

"**Outside your house – your Landlady isn't in, and Sherlock isn't answering either. So if he's not with you, where the hell has he gone? I don't like the idea of him runn****ing around without some form of a conscience with him."**

Watson groaned, a dull feeling of dread filling the pit of his stomach. "Are you sure he's not ignoring you."

"**I'm hoping he is."**

"Alright, I'm nearly there – hang on, I'll let you in." He ran out into the open again, grumbling quietly to himself as a dull ache filled his shoulder – the cold always made him stiff. Crossing the street again he ran to the door where Lestrade stood, true to his word, beneath an umbrella. Sally stood with him, as well as a very smug looking Anderson. Clicking his phone shut John ran to them and stood beneath Lestrade's umbrella, shaking and wet. "God, it must be important if you're waiting out here for him." Watson almost accused, fumbling in his pocket for his set of keys as he let himself in, allowing the others to follow. "What's going on?"

"We've been trying to contact him for hours – one of the pieces of evidence he gave us for the Hemlock case is false, and we've had reopen the investigation."

"Oh. So that's why _you're_ here." Watson eyed Anderson for a moment, before turning and going up the stairs. The house smelt oddly of smoke, but this was nothing to the overpowering stench of fumes which pooled into the hall-way as he opened the door to the living quarters. With a cough he waved his hand in-front of his face, stepping into the hazy room and looking around to the cluttered mess everywhere. It looked like a bomb had gone off in a scientific lab, test tubes lying, some shattered, all across the different surfaces, different coloured liquids lining every open space and books cluttered into high towers in ever corner. Watson took in the familiar sight of his home and walked into the room without a backward glance, listening to, with some humour, the sound of Sally and Anderson's surprise and horror. Apparently Lestrade had known Holmes long enough to no longer be shocked.

Glancing into the kitchen John sighed at the mess and turned toward the small sitting area which appeared to be the only part of the room not completely taken over by Holmes' experiments.

Lounged across the sofa with his eyes closed and breathing deep the very man himself lay asleep, his long, pale limbs, clad in a wrinkled suit, strewn over the sofa with one hand hanging down and clutching the neck of a violin loosely.

"Hm, you're right – he was ignoring you." Watson said across to Lestrade as he came over and peered to the sleeping Holmes who lay still as death, his expression oddly peaceful and reserved.

"He's asleep?" Sally asked, eyebrows raised in disbelief, "That's his excuse? Oh come on, there is no way he could sleep through us ringing the doorbell that many times and calling – he's faking."

"No, he's asleep." Watson replied, narrowing his eyes, "From what I can see it's the first time in over fifty hours as well." He calculated as Anderson began to grumble.

"Great – now you're doing it." He muttered.

"What?"

"Deducting. Look it's not impressive anymore. You probably left when he was awake, and came back when he was asleep. Aka, you deduce – he fell asleep while you were gone. Why do you have to make that sound like it's such a mystery?"

"Because you're right, he was awake when I left, and he's now asleep. The fact of the matter is that I left the house at noon yesterday and haven't heard, or seen him until now."

"Then how could you possible know?"

"Well, for a start there's the morning papers, so he must have got them today which means that he was still awake. And I know he only fell asleep recently because I judged it from this…frankly questionable looking tea. It's lukewarm." John paused, "Which means that, as he's still wearing those same clothes from yesterday when he had already been awake for thirty-six hour, he hasn't gone to bed at all since then either." Watson paused.

"Oh God." Sally muttered, "He's rubbing off on you."

"Please don't say that." John replied, his face oddly mortified as Lestrade laughed faintly and Anderson moved over toward Holmes, nudging his violin with his foot.

"That still doesn't prove the psychopath isn't faking." He announced looking around just as a firm, frustrated voice spoke.

"Sociopath, Anderson please – for the love of God – look it up." Sherlock grumbled, his eyes still closed as a sudden deep crease across his forehead displayed a rapidly thinning temper.

Anderson, leaping a foot in the air, whirled around with a triumphant smile as he pointed to the Detective. "So you were faking!"

"And you're wife is having an affair and just left you." Holmes replied without hesitation so that the other paused at this statement before speaking angrily.

"Now don't try and pull that one on me! There is no way you could have figured that out! Someone told you!"

"Yes - the leaking bottle of perfume in your pocket told me."

For a moment nobody moved, and then Anderson pulled from his pocket very said item, his eyes wide as he stared, open mouthed to the Detective who gave a faint smile, his eyes still closed as Lestrade straightened, eyebrows raised and Sally gave an embarrassed cough, looking away. "How the hell did you know about all that!" Anderson finally asked and Sherlock gave a low whistle.

"Because they're all interlinked." He paused, before throwing himself into an explanation. "You bought your misses a bottle of perfume yesterday evening on the top floor of a multi-complex shop in high-street – Chanel, if I'm quite correct. This morning however, as you removed it from it's box, you dropped said bottle before hurriedly putting it into your pocket. Your wife found the box, yet instead of confronting you, she took your car, and you arrived home tonight to an empty house this evening. Any mistakes?"

A dead silence followed, and John found himself smiling slightly as he watched, still amazed at Sherlock's incredible deducting ability.

"So, how did I figure it out? Well, let's see. First of all, I know the smell of Chanel distinctly because it is – coincidentally – Sally's favourite perfume, and I can smell it from here as it's leaked all over your coat – a fact you didn't realise because of the ongoing rain today. How did I learn so much from the perfume though…Well it's simple really. I know where you bought it because your wife is in a wheel-chair, meaning that the only place you felt safe buying the perfume was in a place inaccessible for the invalid. The multi-storey shop in High street is close to where you live, but the lift is broken – a perfect place to roam unseen. Then there was a crack in the bottle, which meant that you must have dropped it, but then put it in your pocket without noticing. Your line of work makes you observant, and you need a steady hand, which means you that you dropped the bottle out of surprise and then had to hide it quickly. But who could you be hiding it from? Why, the only person who would know it was intended for a lover – your wife. So this morning when you dropped the perfume it was because your wife entered the room. In your hurry to leave, and the relief of your success at hiding the perfume, you did not check the bottle for breaks, nor think of the box you left behind. And I know she found it, or somehow realised, because of what's missing. Hm…Distinctive sound your car makes when it drives, an unnecessary purr hardly found in this side of London, yet today you came in a Cab. Why is that? You flaunter your jaguar everywhere you go, yet now, when you've clearly come to tell me I made a mistake, or to arrest me, or whatever, you don't bring your pride procession. That hardly makes sense unless, of course, you don't have it anymore. But you had it this morning – I saw you drive past when I picked up the paper. So your wife took it, as she's only other person with access to a set of keys. It knew it couldn't be stolen by anyone else, otherwise you wouldn't be here looking for a kick after such a bad day, you'd be looking for it. As for your wife's lover, it's difficult to drive with a broken leg, so your wife must have had help. As you didn't worry about being seen when you bought the perfume I can assume she doesn't have many family or friends close by that you know of. A lover would be the only thing that you wouldn't be aware of. There, see – simple."

John sighed, rolling his eyes at this nonchalant behaviour as he began to tidy, rearranging this. "How do you know he didn't just lend the Car to his wife?" He asked and Holmes snorted.

"Please." He murmured, "Anderson's not the type."

"Actually-" Anderson began but the Detective cut him off.

"-Oh, don't try it, it won't work. Now shush – I'm sleeping." For a moment he was quiet before, with a sudden grumble he spoke again. "Oh, and Anderson, if you _ever_ kick my violin - or so much as touch it for that matter - ever again, please note that I will _break _you."

"Wha-…Are you threatening me!" Anderson demanded as Lestrade gave an exasperated grumble and spoke, cutting across Holmes' reply.

"Enough! Both of you. You're like a pair of bickering children, this is ridiculous. Sherlock, we need your help."

"Evidentially."

"We've had to reopen the Hemlock investigation, you made a mistake on one of the pieces of evidence we found."

"Oh." Holmes murmured, "So that's why Anderson's here." He stated, as Watson had done and John chuckled silently to himself, pouring the awful looking tea down the sink where it seemed to actually _fizz_. "So I made a mistake…Hm." He murmured, "Interesting."

"Not interesting, bad – we might have the wrong person in jail, for God's sake." Lestrade attempted to prompt the other into action, yet Sherlock did not move, maintaining his strewn out pose, eyes closed. From across the room John stifled a groan and all but wrung the air before in anger as he came across a huge spillage of liquid on his floor.

"Ugh! Sherlock – what is this!" He demanded, hoping with all his might that the man hadn't been experimenting with poisonous toxins again.

"What colour is it?" Holmes replied, "I can't see with my eyes closed."

"Oh good, you do have some similarities with normal human beings." Sally bit as Watson replied.

"It's clear. Dammit - It's all over the curtains too! Ah, wait, I think I found the bottle. It's - …Sherlock, please tell me that this isn't the right bottle, because it's labelled Benzene."

"Oh, then there's no need to worry, it's just gin."

"Why did put gin in a bottle of Benzene! And where the hell is the Benzene then?"

"In the fridge."

"Why, God, why? That stuff's poisonous, you know?"

"Pah, not that much." Holmes shifted a little deeper into the sofa as Lestrade picked up another open bottle from the table directly beside him. "Everything in this room is totally harmless as long as it is treated with the correct level of respect."

"So what have you put in this one then?" Lestrade asked, swirling the contents around curiously.

"What's the bottle labelled as?"

"Chloroform."

"Oh. No, that one _is_ chloroform." Holmes confirmed as Watson darted across the room, grabbing the bottle and closing it hurriedly with a fit of panic.

"How long has that been open for!" He demanded.

"Oh…A few minutes…-Hours." Sherlock mumbled contently.

"Are you _completely_ out of your mind!" He exasperated, before pointing to Anderson and Sally wearily, "Open all of the windows."

"But it's raining."

"Just open them, please – we need to clear the damn fumes out of this place."

"It's not that bad." Sherlock whispered, a small smile on his lips as Watson flopped down into a chair, suddenly exhausted.

"You're getting high on this, aren't you?" He accused, but it was without venom and Holmes just smiled as a blast of wind suddenly burst through the room and Watson was given his first breath of fresh air in minutes.

"Right. Now that we've gathered you're a complete lunatic," Sally began, crossing over to Holmes, her arms folded, "Could you perhaps explain your mistake so that we can end this case once and for all, and go home."

For a moment nothing happened, and then with a small grumble Holmes opened his eyes and stood so quickly that Sally jumped back with surprise as the Detective marched straight toward the kitchen, stumbling a couple of metres to the side halfway there, as all the blood rushed from his brain.

"What was my mistake then?" He asked, all but crashing into the kitchen counter as he attempted to coordinate his way across the kitchen toward the cupboards. In the light he suddenly appeared very tired and haggard and Watson watched him with a faint touch of worry.

"The phone." Sally stated. "You told us the victim had stolen it, but we have recently discovered that it actually belonged to his mother. We based our entire case on that theft!"

Holmes chuckled, taking out a coffee cup from the cupboard and placing it on the counter with a smirk. "That wasn't a mistake." He said simply and Anderson approached.

"Didn't you just hear us? We discovered that the phone wasn't stolen, you told us it was! You made a mistake."

"Anderson." Lestrade interrupted. "That's not what he means." The Inspector looked over to the young, dark haired man as he began to pour almost the entirety of the jar of coffee grains into his single cup. "You lied to us on purpose."

"Of course I did." Sherlock whistled, his hands shaking faintly as he moved to the other side of the kitchen once more and plugged in the kettle. "If I hadn't you would have gone straight for the obvious choice of the mother being the murderer, and wouldn't have listened to a word I said. Peer pressure had you under to end the case quickly, but I was under none, so I saw clearly. The phone was a minor detail, I simply tied it in. I actually gained most of the evidence from the stolen watch he was wearing, but I didn't think it best to mention that." He went to the table in the centre and picked up a bottle, "Any more questions?" He asked, measuring out some of the liquid with his eyes.

"So you tricked us…But all of the other evidence was real?"

"Of course…with a few alterations so that the phone somehow fit into it." Holmes replied returning to the kettle with the bottle. Watson watched, eyebrows raised in surprise, as the fair-skinned man went to pour some of the contents in, and spoke quickly, stopping him.

"Holmes, why are you putting that in the kettle?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, "…I can't believe I just heard that question, can you honestly not figure it out?" He asked. "I want coffee."

"Sherlock, that's a bottle of hydrochloric acid." John watched him closely, face dubious as Holmes tilted his head to one side.

"No, I finished the bottle of hydrochloric acid this morning – this is now water." He stated as his four observers watched him in dead silence.

"There were _two_ bottles." Watson finally said, his eyes sharp as Holmes stopped, a little surprised by this news as he looked over to the table to see that, in-fact, yes – there _were_ two bottles. Silently he dipped two of his fingers into the bottle he was holding, looking oddly vacant before, pulling them away. After a moment he breathed out, "Ok, you were right, this one _is _aci-i-i-i-i-i-i-d." He sang suddenly, hopping up and down as clutched his hand with a fit of pained giggles, before rushing over to the sink and sticking them beneath the flow of the cold tap. "The other one is water." He continued calmly.

"I…I am not honestly sure what I just witnessed." Sally murmured as Holmes shook out his hand and blew on it, observing this fingers with suspicion – as if they were the feigns responsible.

"Holmes…are you alright?" Watson asked slowly as the other looked up, flashing him a charming smile.

"I am as perfectly sound as a man should be when he's asleep." He replied and Watson frowned. But before he could answer Anderson had spoken.

"Why is there a skull in here?" He asked, pointing to Yorik who was balanced on the back of one of the chairs.

"Because it reminds me of you." Sherlock replied sweetly and Watson grabbed the offending object and tucked it under his arm.

"Ok, I'm not going to ask what it was doing in the kitchen, or why there are…_burn_ marks in the eye sockets… But I've returned now, so it's going back to Mrs. Hudson cellar, alright?"

"Watson, you're no fun."

"It's a Skull Holmes…A. Human. Skull."

"…-He wasn't always."

"-That's not an excuse!" Watson barked, before sighing, "At least you didn't take him out into public – Oh, God, yes you did…Your expression says it all…aha, I'm living with a madman."

"This is ridiculous." Sally interrupted, "I'm going home."

"Oh, wonderful." Holmes cried, "I would show you the door…But I can't remember where it is."

"Oh, you are so _cute._" Sally spat and Sherlock smiled in return. Meanwhile John had moved across toward his roommate and was observing him intently. After a moment he picked up a book from the table and waved it in-front of the man's face.

"Holmes, read this." He said and Sherlock looked around to him in surprise, before replying with a prompt –

"I can't."

-And moved happily away as Watson continued to observe him, shaking his head slowly.

"Extraordinary." He whispered, "I honestly cannot…Holmes, are you really asleep?"

"I thought that was already evident." Holmes replied, filling the kettle with water, Watson snorted in amazement.

"I don't…I don't believe it." He murmured, "They say your brain sorts through problems in your sleep but…This is incredible."

"What are you talking about?" Anderson asked, staring to the Doctor with curious distaste as Watson watched Holmes prepare his coffee.

"He's asleep." Watson replied.

"Alright, we get that he's tired but-"

"-No. He's _actually_ asleep – he's sleeping _right now_."

Pause.

"What?"

"He is sleeping – he's…he's, sleep-talking, sleep-…Sleep-deducing?" John looked back towards the man, "He's fast asleep and he's totally aware of it." He said with amazement.

"Of course I'm aware of it. Half of this doesn't make logical sense as actual matter, but only as a collection of thought."

"Half of what…?"

"The M painted in blood on the back wall, those Chinese dolls moving across the windowsill, the giant lucky cat, the coil of rope, the hanging woman, my brother sat by the fire, my grandfather's portrait, numbers in the air, thoughts, lives, memories, that humungous periodic table hanging from our curtains!-"

"-No, no Sherlock, that's actually there." John confirmed calmly and Holmes gave a small 'Oh' in response, chewing his bottom lip as he watched something pass in the air in-front of him, invisible to the rest.

"O…K…That is wrong." Sally whispered, eyes a little wide with disturbed fear, as she watched the Detective. "How do you know he's not just hallucinating?"

"He couldn't read the book." Watson replied, "When you dream or sleep you use the opposite side of your brain needed to be able to read. He can see the 'M' because it's a concept in his mind, and he knows the periodic table because he recognises it's shape, but he can't read."

"Oh, dear God - he belongs in a freak show." Anderson murmured as Sally turned away.

"I'm going – Good night inspector, Doctor." She stated, leaving the room as Anderson watched her go, biting his bottom lip.

"Go with her, then you can split the fare." Holmes suggested deviously, his eyes gleaming as the other growled and disappeared after his girl-friend. Sherlock gave a small laugh before resting his head on the counter, and closing his arms with a contented sight. Lestrade gave a small cough, looking briefly over to John before giving him a small nod and turning away.

"Well, I had better be going." He began, but Watson stopped him before he could go.

"Inspector Lestrade…Before you go you probably want to hear this…I didn't want to say it in-front of the other two, because I didn't feel it was fair, but as you've had to deal with Sherlock for over five years, I thought that maybe you would like to be included in a little piece of information."

"What's that?"

"When people sleep, they are given raw access to their own minds. Apparently Holmes can also use logic, but he can't tell for certain the difference between thought or reality. He knows he's sleeping, but he doesn't know that we're real."

"What are you trying to say?" Lestrade questioned.

"Like this," Watson began, dipping his voice into a whisper, "He is incapable of lying."

There was a pause, and then Lestrade smiled to him, sudden excitement burning through him as Watson smiled in return.

"Anything you'd like to ask him?"

-**End Part 1-**

**Ok – just quickly,**

**Chloroform**** – The fumes are poisonous and knock you out very quickly.**

**Benzene**** – Poisonous to drink, make you light head, lead to long term illness (Cancer).**

**Can anyone tell me where the reference of 'Yorik' comes from? A cyber-cookie to anyone who knows!**

**Watch the space for the second chapter!**

**Please review! **


	2. Conscience

**Greetings! Alright, I am actually so thrilled that so many people have taken an interest in this little muse-ette of mine, thanks a bunch! **

**I also squee'd (as in – I actually **_**did**_**.) when so many people got the correct answer for the 'Yorik' reference! It gives me faith in humanity again to know that I'm not the only person who cares enough about Shakespeare to remember this stuff. I say this because I often quote Shakespeare in conversation (where relevant, I might add) and people stare at me with…the blankest expressions…**

**Anyway – Thank you to everybody who reviewed, I appreciate every single one of them and hope to get around to replying to. Also THANK YOU for pointing out my mistake with the Chloroform. I do know the difference, but I'm dyslexic and sometimes these things just pass over my head without a second thought, so I really appreciate you guys pointing any little things like that out to me. I read through the fic several times before posting it, but sometimes it's not enough. **

**The fact that a few of you said that my grammar was good really gave me a boost of confidence to know my efforts weren't wasted – so thank you. **

**Now, without further ado I present you with the second half – thee parts are planned, but I might expand depending on the feedback. **

**So –**

**Warnings – Craziness, Mentions of Drugs (Non-explicit), Subtle/Possible references to bullying/child-abuse/self-harm, and just generally Holmes being a prick. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer – I do not own Sherlock Holmes in any way shape or form – If I had any say in the BBC production…Sherlock would remove his shirt more often. Seriously. **

**Enjoy**

**-Hydrochloric Coffee-**

Holmes looked agitated. It was the only way to describe it. He paced ceaselessly from one side of the room to the other with long strides, brow lowered and teeth set into his bottom lip. Lestrade and Watson watched him curiously as the genius' eyes darted across the room tirelessly, appearing almost bloodshot as they glowered hard at the walls.

The entire thing had begun almost the moment that Sally and Anderson had left the room where, without warning, Holmes had sprung from his slumped and contented position at the counter and began to search the room accusingly.

"Sherlock," Watson finally began, "What's wrong?"

"I'm looking for something." Was the curt response. "Something that should be here."

"What's that?" Lestrade questioned and Holmes stopped, looking across to them with a suddenly vacant expression.

"I'm not sure." He finally murmured, "I thought I heard something…Oh. Where's my violin – let go of that." He hissed to his vacant chair where his violin sat waiting. Rapidly he leapt toward the instrument and snatched it away from the jaws of the sofa, looking thoroughly offended. "My sanity." He stated protectively, before putting the violin to his shoulder, the bow gripped slackly in his hand. "Ask." He commanded and both Lestrade and Watson jumped as Sherlock looked across to them. "Question me." He instructed, "You keep my mind active, you keep my mind thinking. Always questioning, always wondering, why…Why are you sitting over there – Mycroft, go away." Holmes changed, flittering between sentences as if they were thoughts. "But you can't go away, none of you go away – always cluttering up my mind…Oh, gods I chained my own brother here. How wonderful. I suppose it's a warning." He glanced over to Watson and Lestrade again, "Well go on, question me. That's what you do, isn't it? As my conscience."

"As you-…Y-your conscience?" John blinked and Sherlock nodded assuredly.

"Go on, bicker with me. It's what you're there for – keep me on my toes." Holmes put the bow to his violin and played a stray note, whistling it as he did. John watched, jaw slack as the man to tune his violin from his own perfect pitch.

"Ok. Tell me, honest to God, where you mentally scarred as a child, or were you just _born_ this way?"

"Oh don't bore me with questions like that." Holmes rolled his eyes. "Mentally scarred he says – I took a scalpel to my own skull once, does that count?"

"…" John looked over to Lestrade, "I think that that answers your question quite on its own." He whispered.

"Yes…"

"Aha! This is what I was looking for." Holmes seized the bottle labelled Benzene from the table and frowned, "Wait a minute - where's the contents gone?"

"We- we just spoke about this Sherlock. It's on the floor."

"And so is everything else that doesn't defy gravity. I'm afraid, John, you'll have to be a little more specific then that!"

"Alright, it's on the curtains too – all over them in-fact." Watson uttered dryly.

"A lost cause – I see." Sherlock accepted the knowledge gravely. "Hn, Anderson left his umbrella…A careless mistake. Oh – that's an idea – quick, get me some matches!"

"Why?"

"I'm going to set it on fire as an experiment."

"No no, I draw the line there – and, wait… What on earth would you achieve from doing that anyway!"

"Primarily," Holmes admitted, "A huge, warming sense of amusements. Other than that…not a tremendous amount…-in this case."

"Alright. No, no that's not going to happen. No playing with fire, or matches or anything like that…Tonight at least, ok?"

"…" Holmes paused, "Can I smoke?"

"No."

"Nicotine patch then?"

"We ran out."

"Ah." Sherlock nodded, "Problem." He strode leisurely around the room, swinging the bow in his hands as he subconsciously rested the violin against his shoulder. "Questions. Go."

"Um…" The two men looked to each other, a little thrown off by this direct demand as Watson gave a quick shrug, Lestrade mouthing a clear 'What do we say' to him. Sherlock looked around to them with an expression of disdain.

"Oh, for the love of all that is good and holy in this word – which I might add, having read the morning newspaper, isn't such a great force – the pair of you are quite genuinely useless. Now, kindly start doing your job as my conscience-"

"-We're not your-"

"-Or I will find the means to fire you."

Lestrade gave a spluttered snort, lips slack. "Only Sherlock Holmes would consider the idea of firing his own conscience." He muttered, vacant with disbelief.

"Apparently he already has…We're filling in." John replied, "What do you want us to ask?"

"I don't _want_ you to ask anything." Sherlock replied, "I want you to shut up, yet some part of my humanity demands that you speak…And as irritating as it is the biggest problem I have is your silence. So question me for Gods sake, I know you're dying too."

"Ok, uh…Where did you go to school?"

"Boring – next question."

"You can't do that!" Watson cried and Sherlock looked around to him with surprise.

"Can't I?"

"No?"

"But I just did."

"No – You…I mean to say that you can't ask us to question you, and then not answer on that principle."

"Then stop picking useless questions."

"Why did you become a detective?" Lestrade asked and Holmes turned on him, eyes ablaze.

"Yes – why did you become a detective?" He asked, his voice changing for a moment before it reverted back to normal. "Oh do be quiet Mycroft. Why? Why did I? Excellent question, and also topic related. Why? Because I'm bored. Life is boring. But…" He paused, as he often did halfway through investigations when a thought came to him. "But they're not." He breathed, before launching into an excited rant. "They're fast, they're intelligent - they defy what it is to be human. Oh, no one bats an eyelid at the eccentric when he's actually being useful." Holmes' expression glazed over with a strange euphoria as his hands, apparently on there own, began to play the violin, a hushed, yet jerky build of excitement. "And people – people are so awful they're wonderful. People. People are so easy to read. I love reading people. Things. Times. My interest – the only thing on earth which keeps changing, the only thing which stops me dying of boredom – people always change. But that's not enough, oh no, I want more – I want people who aren't even people anymore. Ahaha – does that make sense?" He mused, the violin becoming agitated with tension as the bow seem to twitch violently across, forcibly muted. "I have to have something to keep my sane, problems which no one else can solve – the thrill of a challenge, the thrill of danger." And suddenly the music burst with barely contained excitement, Holmes' fingers flittering up the fret board with issue as the bow flew up and down across the strings, a loud, harsh and exciting jig of anticipation, action, bate breath. Holmes' face became alight with glee. "It started with small things, obvious things, things that people neglected to notice. But I saw, I saw because I was looking – Mycroft showed me how to look. But he and I are unalike – I wanted to move, to breathe, to feel danger and – Stop shaking your head at me!" He barked to the empty chair again and John jumped, having completely forgotten for a moment that Holmes was asleep and dreaming, the Detective continued, turning his back on his 'brother' as the music shifted once more back to the bated breath of the original piece. "What do people think of me – it is irrelevant. Call me a freak if you will….a freak… freak." Holmes paused, chewing on the word, "Freeeeeeeak – what a peculiar word." The music changed as he thought, becoming a steady, pensive line of notes as the man continued to articulate words, mouthing them silently. Both of his audience members looked to one another, each looked a little awkward, but too fascinated to leave the madman alone. Watson lent forward, cutting across Holmes' muse.

"Are you and Mycroft really such enemies?" John asked and Sherlock looked wearily over to him, eyes narrowed as he suddenly began to play a charming, English baroque style piece, the sound bringing up patriotic imagery and scenes of manor houses in the countryside.

"It's all a matter of Parliament." Sherlock said, his accent dipping pretentiously so that he became a stereotyped aristocrat. John realised that he was mimicking his own concept of Mycroft. "Things must be done subtly, everything thought through. No time for running around, keep your head on straight. Why put yourself in danger, you can achieve so much more with power. A quiet life, a happy life – _you hypocrite_." Holmes suddenly spat, whirling around to the chair as the music changed, becoming a mad, passionate piece filled with fire and anger. "Look how you play people, look how you use them as tools. It wasn't my fault that you infuriated me so much!" He turned his back to the chair once more, his tall figure held erect and eyes hauntingly cold. The music did not change however, underlining a vague, angry colour beneath the man's suddenly icy dispossessor. "Why was I any different? At least I never pretended that I wasn't doing otherwise, never threw up any pretence to hide what I was. A sociopath – how old was I when Father called me that? And I've lived up to those ideals. I may have started the arguments, but you all imposed the anger on me first, imposed the idea of what I should be, how I should think. And then you never had a solution…You didn't have an answer of how to shut my thoughts out. Day and night…Day and night, my gift and my curse." He chuckled, turning back to Watson as the music dipped into the minor, losing it's power and becoming a pathetic tune of self-loathing. "Mycroft is my blood. He is my brother. My mentor. My _creator_. And I love to loath every part of what he's done."

Both men stared, baffled at this statement as Holmes continued his playing, the music shifted once more to an open set of notes, as if the Detective was between thoughts. After a moment he looked back with a frown to Watson and Lestrade.

"John…where have you _actually_ been?" He asked, "You left halfway through my experiment yesterday– wait…Oh, I see, of course. You went on that medical course. Yes…That's why you are wearing a suit yet you also came in carrying your doctor's case. You stayed the night, came back by train and yet, you are wet…why didn't you get a cab?" He frowned, before his eye widened. "Ah, because of the Serial Suicide case – don't worry, if you're in that situation first of all check that the gun is real, and always take the pill furthest away from you – it's reverse psychology. He's a man with nothing to lose, but everything to gain, he places the bets against himself because that's what gives him the highest profit – his diagnosis gave him money for the children, but his living didn't. Anyway, keep that in mind – the pill furthest away is safe. That's the one I took…well, no - I never actually took it now I think about it, and he wouldn't tell me if I was right. How _frustrating._ I should have kept it and found out which one contained the poison. What if I was wrong…No, I can't be wrong, I just can't be." He halted, and laughed, "Though, with all that said, as he's quite dead you really shouldn't be avoiding cabs anymore. The chance of getting taken by another serial killing cabbie is, hm, about 0.024%. - Was it profitable?"

"Pr-profitable? Was what?"

"The Medical course you went on."

"Uh…Y-Yes, I…suppose." Watson shrugged.

"Hm." Sherlock raised his eyebrows with a nod of acceptance before glancing lazily across to Lestrade. "You knew I lied, didn't you?"

"About what?"

"_About what?_ Good God the pair of you, are your attention spans truly so short? Lord, it must be so nice thinking the way you do, each moment as it comes, you live life so…inanely." Holmes rolled his eyes, "The phone – you knew I lied about the phone."

Lestrade, used to Holmes' abuse shook off the man's insult with obvious issue and nodded in reply. "I had an idea."

"Yet you came to check."

"I came to check."

"Good…Very good." Sherlock complimented to the air. "And you brought Anderson. Why?"

"He volunteered."

"He always does." Holmes hummed, "He loves to be the bringer of bad news, and I love it when he is."

"Why's that."

"Because he's always wrong."

Lestrade laughed at the serious thoughtfulness in Sherlock's words. "Well he was extra keen tonight."

"Yes, he must have been…It's always good news for him when it's serious enough for you to have to come over. Like when he came during your faked Drug's bust…Hm…Drugs bust." He murmured quietly to himself, before his breath hitched. "Oh dear, bad thoughts." He said sharply, but his hands began to quiver and play a jittery, high and soft little piece. Watson watched him, a little alarmed as an expression of euphoria filled his face. "Bust…Drugs…-"

"-Ask him another question." Lestrade ordered John immediately.

"What, why? I can't think of anything just like-"

"-Well think harder. I can't ignore everything that I hear here tonight, if he mentions something that doesn't…abide with the law, I cannot pretend I did not witness his confession."

Now John was beginning to understand, Holmes thoughts were leading him onto his previous drug use and, should he accidentally let slip that he was perhaps – if he _was_ – still on something, then Lestrade would have to take action.

"Holmes." John called and the man stopped mid chatter, cutting away from the muted conversation he was having with himself, and looked around to him, face curious.

"Yes?"

Watson hesitated, "Have you ever been in-love?" He asked, his cheeks colouring faintly in embarrassment. He felt stupid asking such a question, but it had been the first thing that came to him. The search for the truth in Holmes' mind had just turned into a girls' game of 'Truth or Dare'.

Holmes did not respond for a long moment, eyes wide as coins, and then his violin began to play a soft, sultry tune which glowed a sensual red, whilst maintaining the light touch of something almost…romantic. "Shut up!" Holmes ordered his violin, but it did not, "Shut up! Shut up!" he gave a frustrated growl. "She and I weren't…" He drew off, hesitating, before biting his bottom lip. Both Lestrade and Watson were on the edge of the sofa, eyes wide at this half confession.

"Oh God…you actually have." Watson whispered, "You…You, as in _Sherlock_ – _the_ Sherlock Holmes…Have been in-love."

"Captivated – it's _different_." Holmes replied, and the music sped up in tempo. "Mind, thoughts, and deductions – She was everything that I hated, and so much…_more._ I was conned – hah, _I_ was conned."

"What was her name?" John pressed and Sherlock became agitated again, his eyes darting away.

"Is my coffee ready yet?" he asked, "I'm really quite thirsty."

"Holmes, what was her name?"

"Oh…That red dress – so that's how she fooled me…She looked so different with her hair pinned back." He mused at a sudden memory.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade cried, "What was her name!"

Holmes stopped dead, "Adler." He stated simply.

"Adler?" John chuckled, looking across to Lestrade, but the other had gone pale, his mouth hanging open. "What's wrong?"

"Adler? As in _Irene_ Adler!"

"Irene." Holmes sighed. "Yes. Irene."

"I don't believe this!" Lestrade shook his head, "You can't mean the same person."

"Who is she?" John asked.

"A con artist – a famous one at that. I've had hundreds of case files handed to me of her misdeeds, she's a thief and master mind and-"

"-The one who escaped." Sherlock's eyes were ablaze, "I had her…I solved the entire case, found the missing item…And when I arrived she was gone, gone as surely as she had come." He snorted, "Left me what I needed, but not what I wanted…victory."

"So you've been seeing her?" Lestrade barked and Sherlock turned around to him with a face dripping with cynicism.

"We work in crime, my friend, her area of expertise…A woman like that, of course I see her."

John stared to his friend and then gave a frustrated sigh, rolling his eyes, "You love _mystery_ - it's nothing to do with her as an actual person. Ugh, Gods - you never even had a relationship, did you?"

"Quite correct." Sherlock confirmed, but his violin played the soft romantic waltz undaunted, as if something deep within the man found the idea of attachment…appealing.

"We shared a brief romance." Holmes suddenly confessed, "Romance is an _event_, it is not a feeling. I never…We…No, more than romance, it was no more than that." He blinked, face dull and suddenly John could envisage what the other was saying. He saw it - Holmes and the mysterious Irene Adler dancing in a people filled ball-room, everyone around coupled, enjoying the classical band as they danced, oblivious that two people glided passed them all, clasped tightly to one another, and heated by the passion of apposing forces suddenly pushed together. She would be glamorous, startling even, her eyes witty, intellectual. Holmes would be stood tall, every part of his charm shinning, his dark handsome features sharp and irises gleaming. There was no love between them, but a striking understanding, a blissful interlocking of minds, an undisturbed moment where perhaps he leant down and kissed her and they both thought 'Maybe'. Maybe…but no.

So that was the closest Holmes had ever got to a relationship with a woman, a brief moment of passion, or perhaps several – Romance as an event, a moment, but not as a feeling…It really begged the question of-

"Sherlock," Watson began, unable to stop himself, "I'm sorry, but I've really got to ask, seriously, once and for all – are you gay?"

Sherlock blinked, taken aback. "Are you?" He replied.

"No."

"Then I don't see why it's important." Holmes said calmly, turning back to the violin. Lestrade leant in to Watson.

"I thought you said he couldn't lie." He whispered.

"He can't – he's just avoiding a question."

"Well surely it's obvious what the answer is then?"

"No…" John shook his head, "I think he's avoiding it because…he actually doesn't know."

"How can he not know?" Hissed the man, "He's thirty, for gods sake – normal people know by-…Normal people. Oh." For a moment Lestrade was silent, looking toward where Holmes was kicking a pile of books out of his way, still playing the violin.

"Is my coffee ready yet?" The Detective called. "I want coffee."

"Normal, or the Hydrochloric kind?"

"That depends whether you'll be needing my expertise in the investigation of my own murder." Was the curt, sharp response. "Your call."

"Alright, alright – I'm doing it." Grumbled John, getting up with an exasperated grumble as he crossed into the kitchen and poured out the hot water into the cup, stirring it. "I don't see how you're going to drink it though."

"It's not for now, it's just so that I know it's…there." Sherlock whispered faintly. "My morning fix."

"Please don't talk about fixes, and it's the middle of the night." Lestrade bit.

"Precisely why I am not drinking it now." Was the curt response and Watson fumed silently, wondering why he had even bothered to prepare the damn thing if the man wasn't going to have it! Moving was painful – he was stiff and wet. Holmes went on playing his violin without a single care, the bow sliding through the notes without purpose, or direction. Watson came and sat down beside Lestrade.

"This is harder than I thought."

"What is?"

"Getting a straight answer out of him."

"It's easier than it would be if he were conscious." Lestrade reminded the Doctor who had to agree with a grunt and roll of his eyes, nodding slowly. "I guess this is how his brain works."

"No, I don't even think we've scratched the surface. Did you know he's got an internal GPS of the entire city?"

"What…Really?"

"Yes, when we were investigating our first case we chased a cab at one time and-"

"-As you are both clearly occupied with something else and have failed desperately at your job, can I go to sleep now?" The detective suddenly interrupted them, looking across to the sofa.

"You _are_ asleep." Watson replied and Holmes blinked with a small nod before a soft, scared whimper escaped from his lips. The sound was so out of character and context that both other men looked up in shock, but Holmes had turned away again, his expression neutral. Lestrade took to his feet, suddenly a little uneasy. Neither man had ever heard a sound anywhere akin to fear from Holmes' mouth before. The whimper appeared to have gotten beneath Lestrade's skin.

"I had better go." He stated, clearing his throat.

"Oh, in which case have my coffee before you do – otherwise I'll drink it and be up all night." Holmes offered.

"You're already asleep. And weren't you going to leave it until morning?" Watson barked back and Holmes shrugged his shoulders in defence and turned once more to the window, which he closed with his elbow. Lestrade went into the kitchen and taking up the slightly cooled coffee took a sip carefully, before glancing back to Holmes, expression torn. Finally he spoke.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"What do you think of me?" He asked hesitantly and Holmes laughed.

"You're an idiot." He said lightly, before adding – as he had done with John – "Don't worry, most people are. It's quite funny through, really…watching you, that is. You seem incapable of pulling some riddles apart, so you just sit there and drool most of the time like a baby with a wooden block." He continued cheerily before pausing as Lestrade looked down to the cup, finishing the coffee in several quick gulps.

"But…" Holmes began after a long silence, a quizzical expression on his face, "As far as investigators go…I wouldn't call you…bad. As far as people go…not bad at all."

Lestrade was so shocked by the words that he dropped the mug so that it clattered onto the table with a crash, causing Holmes to jump a foot in the air and stumble backward into the wall, eyes alight with panic. "Don't do that!" He cried with great agitation before his expression twisted in confusion. Lestrade was staring at him open mouth, eyes wide and hand head shaking slightly. John gave a small sigh putting his hands behind his back. Holmes blinked, apprehensive. "Not good?" he asked, eyes darting to John who smiled to him.

"Just fine." He said before looking back to the inspector. "He can't lie." He reminded Lestrade quietly and the man blinked in disbelief. Because everybody knew that when it came to compliments this was the height of Holmes' ability. Genuine, truthful and always slightly offensive – charming in a sadistic sort of way, just as Sherlock was.

"I have to go." Lestrade said as form of reply, turning the other way hurriedly, his back to both men. "Good night Doctor Watson, Sherlock."

"Call her." Holmes said as the man got to the door. "You're doing better than you think."

Lestrade didn't respond other than to nod his head, not even looking around before he exited the room and closed the door after him without a sound.

With a raise of his eyebrows John looked between the door to Holmes and back, before shaking his head and returning to the sofa where he lounged, observing his friend.

"You know, it can't be good for you to be using so much energy asleep – when do you rest?"

"Rest is for the weak – where the _hell_ have you put my skull?"

"It's on the counter."

"Aha!" Sherlock released his Violin in an instant and went to the counter, crouching down so that he was eyelevel with Yorik's sockets. "Hmm…The scoundrel moves when I'm not looking."

"…Right?" Watson put his feet up, muttering, "I don't know why you keep that thing."

"Because it took me a great deal of effort to unbury."

"You- wait, you what!" John choked, "You unburied him!"

"Best not think about it." Sherlock tittered.

"I- bu-…Ugh…Unbelievable."

"Quite." Holmes stood up quickly and whirled around, so that he stumbled to the side and toppled into the wall. John leapt to his feet in surprise as his roommate slipped to the floor, covering both of his eyes.

"Holmes?" He darted over to the other as Sherlock banged his head back against the wall beside him, none to gently, and groaned.

"Oh, stupid, stupid, stupid." He muttered to himself. "Why didn't I realise before?"

"Realise what?"

"Oh – it doesn't matter." The man muttered gloomily, but John noted how cheerless the Detective seemed all of a sudden. "Do you resent me John?"

"For what?"  
"Saying the truth?"

John's voice caught in his throat. Holmes knew. Holmes knew that Watson was real, and so had Lestrade been – he'd figured out what they had done. Watson looked to the floor for a minute before he quietly sat down beside the man, shoulder to shoulder. "Do you resent me for questioning you when you can't lie?"

"…Yes." Sherlock whispered quietly, and he suddenly appeared so miserable that John felt a tight knot in his stomach squeeze. "Is this what it's like…when I deduct people?"

"Yes."

"Oh." Holmes laughed faintly, "I think I know why they tell me to piss off then." He said weakly as both of them giggled.

"Sherlock…"

"Yes?"

"Do you still take drugs?"

Holmes grunted, his eyes closed. "I'm clean." He whispered, but the statement sounded unfinished, as if he meant to say 'for now' at the end, or 'At the moment'. "It's hard." He suddenly blurted harshly. "There's no relief. There's never any relief. I can't think and then I can't stop. So many thoughts…" He stopped and his face crumpled, "Stop asking me questions – stop. It's not fair."

"Alright – I'm sorry." Watson began to worry, "I shouldn't have done this. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want me to know."

"Good, because I don't want you to know anything at all."

"What? Why?" John was a little hurt by the ferocity and certainty of Sherlock's statement.

"Because-…" Holmes cut himself off, "Because then you'll realise I'm crazy." He laughed lightly.

"Oh. Well, I don't know if it's because you're rubbing off on me or because…I don't know, you've awakened a deductive sixths sense, but I've kind of…well, you know… already noticed." Watson retorted with a chuckle and for a moment the two sat side by side, laughing giddily until they fell into comfortable silence. "Did you see Lestrade's face though?"

"Hah – I thought I'd gone too far."

"No…It was nice."

Holmes paused, looking across, "Really?"

"Really."

"Damn – I must improve on that." Sherlock announced with light sarcasm and Watson laughed. "He dropped the cup though."

"Yes he did – and scared you too."

"Sounded like a gun going off."

"No it didn't."

"It did to me." Sherlock insisted, "I thought he fired at me."

"Why would he do that?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and looked across to his friend with a dubious expression, as if this was obvious and John sighed, looking ahead.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"I have one more question."

"No."

"Please…"

"…What?"

"What am _I_ to you?" John kept his eyes forward, unable to look to the side as he felt Sherlock take in a deep shuddering breath at the awkwardness of the question. There was a long silence, and then the Doctor dropped his head, "You know what, it doesn't matter I-"

"-You're the best choice I've ever made." Holmes said it all at once so that Watson, unprepared, froze on the spot, eyes set forward in shock. He had expected a harsh truth, expected to be told he was nothing but an audience member in Sherlock's little act, not to be told such a thing – such an incomprehensible thing.

By the time he was able to look around Sherlock was slumped back into the wall, eyes closed and breathing deep once more – fully asleep.

**-End Part 2-**

**Woop woop! Ok, so this chapter was a little longer than the last one, and I hope you all enjoyed. It's slightly crazier, serious and abstract then the last also, but I hope I kept a few light bits to keep it manageable. **

**Please review as that would be much appreciated!**

**Thanks a bunch!**


	3. A Good Man

**Wow! Ok, so ****this is the last part of three chapters - I hope you enjoyed this fic everyone. I was very pleased by the amount of interest that this fic got, and considering it's popularity I think people like my interpretation of the characters. I'm happy that I met to so many peoples' standards! :D**

**I'm looking to write a prequel to this based on Arthur Conan Doyle's 'A Scandal in Bohemia', which is the story when Sherlock met Irene Adler. It will be tied into this fic because later I'm going to write a sequel to this where she'll reappear. I've always been very interested in their relationship, but I maintain that whilst she will be in it my main priority is the connection between Watson and Holmes, as well as Lestrade. If you would be interested to read those then keep an eye out, or leave in your review that you would like me to tell you when they'll be coming out. **

**Thank you for all of your support and I hope you enjoy this slightly more mushy chapter. :P **

**Warnings – A little language, bad grammar, bla.**

**Disclaimer – I do not own any of these characters, and am simply using them for story telling purposes. Seriously. :P **

The clock struck twelve as Watson shifted, blinking open his weary eyes as a stiff pain shot through him, making him give a stifled groan and sit a little straighter, grinding his teeth. He'd dozed off.

Looking around uncomfortably he was greeted with the eerie sight of Yorik watching him with his usual empty expression for the table –

'_Well of course it's an empty expression – he's a skull!'_

-John grumbled internally, before glanced over his other shoulder to behold the sight of Holmes who had slumped and was leaning against him, mouth parted and slack jawed in sleep. The earlier events of the evening suddenly jumped to the front of his memory and he blinked, startled. God, that had to have been the most peculiar evening he'd ever had. A sudden recollection of Holmes' words floated the top of his subconscious and he smiled faintly, still a little confused, but warmed by the man's words. Looking back over toward the Detective he noted that he was still in a deep sleep. Wow - The man really looked tired. Watson prodded him hard in the shoulder so that he grunted, twitching into semi-consciousness.

"Hey, go to bed to sleep." John instructed, remaining silent about the fact he was equally as hypocritical.

Sherlock opened his eyes wearily and looked across to him, pupils beady from beneath his lowered lids. "Go away."

"No – come on, you're not sleeping here. You're going to bed."

Holmes looked defiantly away and Watson stood with a hiss, moving his hand quickly to help the man up. Sherlock flinched away from the other's outstretched fingers.

"Not good?" He whispered again and John raised his eyebrows.

"Why do you always say that?"

"People categorize actions in 'Good' and 'Bad'. Good is rewarded, bad is punished. As I am above all your ridiculous ideals I cannot always predict the unintentional repercussions my daily actions might have."

"That doesn't explain why you assumed me putting my hand out would mean I was angry." Watson's mouth drew into a thin line, and Holmes looked away, suddenly awkward. John's brow lowered. "What, did you think I was about to hit you? I'm helping you to your feet, for God's sake."

"Oh." Sherlock glanced to the fingers with the highest suspicion before allowing himself to be pulled painfully to his feet. "What time is it?"

"Somewhere near the bewitching hour."

"What?" Sherlock blinked, glancing to the clock, "No it isn't – bewitching hour's at three – get your facts straight John."

"God, I meant 'it's late' Sherlock, I couldn't give a damn when the bewitching hour is. And if you could see the clock then why did you have to ask?"

"Looking requires effort."

"And asking doesn't?"

"Knowing that someone else has to put in an effort cancels out my own." Holmes replied promptly before sauntering across the room, pausing only once. "Wait, something's not right…What is it?"

"Uh…Hitler's view on brunettes?" Watson suggested sarcastically, "I've really no idea."

"No, that's not it's…why…Why is there a giant periodic table strapped to the curtains?"

"You put it there whilst experimenting."

"Oh I see – Can't think why though, I know it off by heart…But yes, fine…In which case I have only one question for you John, before I go to bed."

"That is?"

"…" Sherlock looked back around to him, "Why was I sleeping sitting on the floor?" His expression was that of genuine confusion and Watson gave a soft chuckle.

"Read the first line of this book." He threw the novel to Holmes who caught it, perplexed, and read out the first sentence with superb clarity and diction. "That's your answer then."

"I beg your pardon?"

"See, when I asked you to do that earlier, you couldn't."

"I…" Sherlock's expression twisted into an innocent face of confusion, as it often did when he could not comprehend something – something which was normally blindingly obvious. "…What?" He blinked.

"You were sleep-walking, and talking I might add…_And_ deducing – but that goes without saying with you." Watson explained and Sherlock stared to him dumbly for a moment before his mouth dropped with what could only be described as horror.

"Lestrade was here…I remember."

"That's right."

"Oh God." Holmes whispered, "What did I _tell _you?"

His expression was so filled with desperation that John felt his stomach drop at the mere sight of the emotion. "Not much."

"Tell me."

"Really – hardly anything, you just sort of-"

"-Sort of what!"

"-Talked, and um…Well, really you didn't say much-"

"-What did I say!"

"Well-"

"What!"

"-Nothing!"

"I said something!"

"It wasn't…Really, you – I mean, come on-" John scoffed, but drew back as he saw Sherlock approach, his temper clearly rising.

"Goddamn you - What. Did. I. Say?" He whispered fiercely, glaring down to the Doctor who stared back up, taken aback, but fearless. The Soldier drew in a deep breath and locked eyes with his flat mate.

"You spoke about your brother, you spoke about why you became a detective, you spoke about Irene Adler. You deduced Anderson's wife had left him from a leaking perfume bottle in his pocket – all with your eyes closed, I might add, and you nearly put hydrochloric acid in the kettle. All in all you gabbled about things that I couldn't even begin to understand, and the only incriminating thing that passed from your lips was a confession that you had taken a scalpel to the skull once as a child. Alright?"

Sherlock stared to him with surprise, before quietly whispering, "So I didn't…say anything about…Drugs, or-"

"-No." John said shortly. "You didn't. You didn't say anything other than what was on the loose surface of your thoughts."

"And you questioned me?"

"We…Questioned you, yes."

"Why?"

"You would have done the same." John said, a little defensively.

"That's an excuse, not a reason. Why?" Sherlock pushed.

"Because…I wanted to know."

"Again – why?"

John breathed a sigh, rubbing his eyes gently. "You know everything about me – you read it, you see it, you – you deduce it for God's sake! You have no sense of boundary at all-"

"-That's not true, I give you your space-"

John spluttered a laugh, "My- My space! Ok, so you haven't invaded my room, but…But you don't have to. Sherlock you see things about people, things that…often, people don't want you to know and…And it's extraordinary. It really is just amazing but…Also, slightly unfair."

"Unfair, why is it unfair? It's obvious to anyone who looks, it's completely obvious-"

"-No it isn't. It's obvious to you and…And to your brother and…It's not to us. And it comes with all sorts of problems, I can see that but…I just wanted to read you as easily as you read me." Watson finished and Sherlock was still for a long moment, before giving a slow nod.

"Alright…I see your reasoning." He said eventually and John frowned.

"Do you?"

"I do."

"I…Don't think you do."

"You're right, I don't – _Why_! Why would you need to question me like that in that state? You could have asked me when I was awake." Sherlock hissed.

"Do you ask people before you deduce things about them?" Watson raised an eyebrow.

"No, but that's different-"

"-Is it?"

"It is!"

"No it isn't." John said coolly. "Now either you can accept that, or I can leave right now."

Sherlock blinked in shock at this exclamation. "Leave? What do you mean leave? You can't leave."

"Yes I can."

"You wouldn't."

"Wouldn't I?"

Holmes edged away with distress, his usually cool misdemeanour replaced with a pensive and awkward one instead. Turning away he grabbed his violin and putting it hastily on his shoulder began to scrape his bow across it, so that it sang out a tuneless set of notes one after the other, each urgent, quacking and confused so that it was little surprise when, with a violent twist, Sherlock turned back to him, arms hanging thrown down at his side, violin clung loosely in hand, and expression tormented with confusion. "What did I tell you?" he repeated, "You specifically. I must have said something…something which…changed you."

"I wouldn't say that."

"What did I say?" Holmes directed the question at himself, and he was almost shaking as he fell back slowly onto the sofa, putting his hands up through his hair and tugging at it in irritation. "What did I confess?"

Watson narrowed his eyes, brow lowering in slight worry as he approached steadily, his hand slightly outstretched. "Sherlock, Sherlock it's alright-"

Holmes snapped his head up with a snarl, "Go away!" He hissed venomously, and Watson would have been stung if it weren't for the fact that he was close enough to see the fresh sheen of perspiration present on Sherlock's pale face. Paler than normal in-fact – he looked almost sickly apart from those two rose coloured blooms high on his cheeks. John's stomach plummeted and he immediately touched a hand to the other's forehead.

"Jesus, you're burning." He whispered urgently.

"Get off me."

"No." Watson knelt down, his eyes darting across the others face as he looked for other signs of illness which might help him decipher the nature of the man's ailment. Sherlock's previous anger turned in curiosity and he watched John with intrigue as the other worked.

"How extraordinary." He noted, "The way you work…You're almost a detective for sickness. What a wonderful thought."

"Hah." Watson snorted, touching both hands to Holmes' boiling neck to check for swelling. There was none. "Have you got a soar throat?"

"No."

"Stomach pain?"

"Not any."

"Back Pain?"

"None."

"Any pain what so ever?"

"Absolutely not."

"Can you even _feel_ pain?" Watson gave the other a dubious smile and Sherlock returned it.

"That's a very debatable question."  
"Hm." Watson touched another hand to the man's forehead, the heat raging beneath his palm so that he could not deny its presence. "Well this explain the sleep-walking, you're restless. Have you had a lot on your mind?"

"You could say." Holmes replied quietly and Watson smiled.

"You must have exhausted yourself." John stood, his expression swept with concern as his eyes lingered over the sudden child like image of Holmes staring up to him. "Are you sure you're not in pain – it's important."

"I wouldn't lie to you."

"Yes you would."

Sherlock smiled, "Alright, granted…But not as often as you would have thought. And I certainly wouldn't lie about this. I'm obsessed, crazed perhaps…but not masochistic enough to deny anything now – that would be stupid."

"That assures me _so_ much, thank you." Grumbled Watson sarcastically. "Go to bed, I'll bring you an icepack."

"I'll be fine without."

"Oh, really – and what was that you just said about not being masochistic…?"

"I said masochistic enough." Sherlock grinned, before wincing slightly with a yawn.

"You've got a temperature - I want to make sure it doesn't escalate. Go to bed, I'll be through in a moment and check up on you. I should've seen it sooner. It was stupid of me not to."

Sherlock nodded his head, but did not move, his eyes staring to the ground quietly as John stood going toward where his medical bag was still propped up in his chair. Guilt was beginning to eat through him and after a moment he sighed. "You told me that…That I was the best choice you had ever made." He stated and sensed, rather then saw Sherlock look up.

"Did I?"

"Yes…I wasn't sure what it meant." Watson admitted, turning back to the other who gave another solemn nod, deep in thought. "Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"What did you mean?"

For a moment the man hesitated, and Watson was struck again by how young he suddenly looked, young and somewhat lost. It was a new look for Sherlock, and John knew it was because when it came to emotional issues Holmes ran as if it were the plague. Slowly the man caught his eye and with a deep breath explained. "I…I was glad that I asked you to come with me that day for the Suicide case. Having you here…with me…I'm beginning to wonder how I could have lived without you. I saw it when you went away – everything was so…dull."

"And I'm not dull?"

"Not in the slightest." Sherlock said without hesitation, pausing, "I think…I would get a little lost without you."

"Oh." Was all John was able to say, because in that instant he saw a set of rare fleeting emotion within Sherlock's eyes which one never saw from beneath the surface of Holmes' cold facade – compassion and gratitude. In that moment all of the hell he went through paid off, just to see how much Sherlock actually cared, even if it was only a flicker within his eyes – it was more than enough. John straightened, "It's the same you know. I don't think I could go back to life without you now."

Sherlock chuckled, "Meaning I've contaminated you?"

"You could say."

Both laughed at that and Holmes got to his feet, wondering toward his room. "In that case, I suppose that I'm not too put out…If that's what I told you, I guess you had a right to know."

"Thank you."

Sherlock looked back around to him with a vague expression of surprise, and smiled, a little dazed, "You are most welcome."

And with that he padded silently back toward his room and left Watson stood, medical bag in hand and smile on his face as the words of Lestrade suddenly floated to the top of his head.

"_Because Sherlock Holmes is a great man and I think that one day, if we're very lucky, he might even be a good one."_

Perhaps that day hadn't come yet, but they were thawing ever closer to it, closer through the ice of Sherlock shield, to the man within it. John doubted Sherlock would ever be an open character – it was not in his nature, but perhaps the Doctor had just seen the first glimmers of a day to come. A day when Sherlock Holmes would be looked upon as a hero, not some sort of lunatic.

For all the pain it might bring and the annoyances which it might through, John vowed that he would wait and work at Holmes bit by bit until that day came. And when it did he could proudly say that he had known all along that Sherlock was a good, abate slightly mad, man and worthy of great, great things.

**-Fin-**

**Thank you everybody again for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. Please leave me a review with any pointers or notes, or to tell me you might be interested in reading the prequel/sequel. Thanks again and I hope to read through some of your works as well – in-fact, I look forward to it!**

**:D Ja for now. **


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